


The Murdered Dead

by Lavanya_Six



Category: Worm (Web Serial Novel)
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2014-08-29
Packaged: 2018-02-15 06:35:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2219496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lavanya_Six/pseuds/Lavanya_Six
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taylor Hebert is not in Hell, but she'll be sending others to it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The writhing bodies pressed in on my refuge from all sides, naked and screaming and clawing for a starless sky. Because they were drowning. From my position atop a spire of jagged rock, everywhere—every direction—I saw only ocean and spraying mist, and people.

A tempest of countless thousands churned the water as they fought to keep afloat. It was anarchy. Hands gripped at hair, arms, legs, necks; whatever fragile hold that might get someone higher for a moment. People of all races and ages scrambled over one another. There was no mercy or cooperation. There was only desperation.

Yet worst of all in this nightmarish place, the thing that truly frightened me, was what they were all screaming over each other. The same two words, over and over.

_"Avenge me!"_

They weren't spoken in anything resembling a chorus. Any occasional harmony in the shrieking was coincidental. The only thing that pulled them together was their blistering anger. It rattled around inside my skull, an irregular beat demanding blood, demanding recognition, demanding—I realized—justice.

Countless legions screamed for it, and were not answered.

Somehow, I wasn't surprised in the slightest.

I inspected the rocky outcropping I stood upon, the only such one anywhere in sight. The people below tried repeatedly to climb it, but kept falling back into the ocean whenever they were yanked down by their fellows, or when their hands slipped on the steep wet rock. Above us all stretched an infinite dark void. Thick clouds, dimly alight in a way that made no logical sense without stars or moon, stirred in the sky.

A stiff hot wind blew off the water, ripe with the smell of all those bodies. It was a relief of sorts. I had woken in this place to find my clothes still ruined by vomit, mold, and horrors I couldn't name.

'This place.'

Ha.

This place—I could guess.

"Is this..." I swallowed, gathered my strength to admit it, to make this insanity real. "I'm in Hell, aren't I?"

"No."

The voice was genderless and directionless in origin. I shivered, but took the answer for what it was. From what I'd seen of this place so far, it wasn't worse than the locker, or my mom dying. If I ended up in the water with everyone else... well, at least I'd be clean.

Minding what seemed to be my looming fate, I turned my sights to the shrieking masses below. "Then where am I?"

"This is _Limbo_ ," replied the voice. "Here lie the souls that cannot relinquish the mortal world—the murdered dead, seeking justice, whose anger cannot let them go."

Murdered dead.

That was me.

After a long moment, stiffly, I managed a nod.

I licked my lips, not minding the bitter taste. "Are... are you... God?"

"No."

"...oh..."

"I am not Satan," the voice added, correcting my unspoken assumption. "I am of _them_."

Oblivious to our exchange, or just not caring, the ocean of humanity below kept on crying for vengeance.

"Know that I am the agent of God's wrath. You, Taylor Anne Hebert, are here because your despair is built on a foundation of cold rage, that those who persecuted you in your mortal life will never be punished for their trespasses. You must trust to God before you can enter the Kingdom of Heaven."

"Will they?"

"Those girls will pay for their crimes—if not in their lifetimes, then after."

My jaw clenched at that weaselly phrasing. "What do you mean _after?"_

"That is no longer your concern."

"They put me in that locker! I DIED there! How is that not my concern?!"

The dark waters below parted at my rage, revealing a brightly lit office...

 

* * *

 

_"It's a matter of damage control," the rotund blonde behind the desk said. "You know that the PRT can't afford a scandal like this."_

_Armsmaster asked, "Do you know what they say about cover-ups?"_

_"Do you know what Director Costa-Brown told me when she learned one of our Wards had murdered a classmate? She wanted to know, in not so many words mind you, if Ms. Hess was still viable Protectorate material once she turned eighteen."_

_"I hope you told her no."_

_"I told her it'd be up to her prison's review board, because she'd burned her bridges in Brockton Bay. So there's that. She'll be some other team's problem in two and a half years."_

_Armsmaster grimaced._

_"It's out of our hands, Colin."_

 

* * *

 

"T-two and half years!" I sputtered. "Two and a half years in juvie and then Sophia gets to pretend to be a hero again? And nobody knows that the PRT and the school covered for her all this time? And my dad will be left all—HOW IS THAT JUSTICE?!"

The voice was as dispassionate as ever. "Take comfort, Taylor. Know that in the end no one escape God's justice."

Beneath me, the sea of murdered dead cried out, and now I finally understood why they shouted endlessly to be avenged. Looking out to the far-away horizon, I only felt angrier. They were like _me,_ and they had been _abandoned_ here, in this place.

I threw my arms wide. "If God cares at all, why is this place full? How could anyone good stand back when they had the power to help?!"

"Can you not even trust God Himself to dispense justice?"

"No!" I spat. "There's no justice but what we make."

Silence.

"Then you've passed your own judgement," declared the voice.

And the starless void above lit up. Pure radiant light bloomed not from a singular source, no magical sun or moon, but from every inch of sky. I raised a hand to shield my eyes from the warm magnificent of it, but didn't look away. Not from this.

"You are not ready for Heaven but not deserving of Hell," the voice told me, "Your spirit shall walk the Earth. You will be the focus for the anger of the murdered dead who seek retribution."

Even the sea of humanity seemed awed to silence. As my eyes adjusted, I realized it was because they were no more. The ocean and craggy pillar were gone, and I now stood upon the open palm of a giant figure.

It had chalk white skin and pupil-less eyes, and wore only a green hooded cloak. It was enormous. Bigger than any skyscraper in Brockton Bay's skyline. I distantly noted that I myself stood barely as tall as the tip of its pinkie, and even there only when counting the topmost segment of the finger.

The voice—the giant—spoke again:

"Confront evil."

I felt tears run down my cheek. This was... I'd been given a chance to change things. To make the world a better place. To be the hero Sophia pretended to be. To avenge all the souls I had seen here in Limbo. "I will."

Motes of green light began to whirl around me, burning away my ruined clothes whenever they glanced upon me myself. Soon enough I was naked, but I could hardly care.

"Confront—and _comprehend_."

Green light cloaked me now. When it faded away, I found myself garbed in exactly what the giant wore. It was something a cape might don. In a way, that's what I was now.

God's cape.

The spectre of His wrath.

"Until you understand _why_ people choose the paths they take, you will wander the face of the Earth, seeking to _rid_ the world of evil—

The giant tipped its hand...

"—a task you must ultimately _fail."_

...and I fell back to Earth.


	2. Emma

Emma Barnes lounged in her warm bubble bath, and stared up at the blank expanse of ceiling above the tub, much as she had for the last twenty minutes. She'd partially refilled the bath once already, draining the tepid water and refilling it with scalding hotness. Her skin was beyond pruned—but what did it matter? She had nothing better to do with her day. An extra long soak beat doing her schoolwork, and there never was anything good on daytime TV.

She sighed.

Her parents had kept her boxed up like a criminal ever since she'd made bail. No cellphones or even a laptop. They didn't want her communicating with anyone without Dad on hand as counsel, and that included her best friends.

_Taylor would've said to read a book_ , a voice within chided Emma.

She squashed the treasonous thought.

Emma was in this whole mess because of Taylor. If her loser ex-friend had just learned her place in the grand cosmic scheme of things, the locker wouldn't have been necessary. But no. It all went in one of Taylor's ears and out the other.

Over a year of life lessons hadn't sunk in. When the PRT got to sniffing around Sophia at the start of her parole, they'd lightened up on Taylor as a precaution, and the moment that had happened...

Making new friends? Smiling to herself? Laughing?

Emma knew where those things led. She'd seen it before, starting right before meeting Sophia for the first time in the alleyway. Emma could recite Taylor's babbling phone call from summer camp word-for-word. The pathetic spiel was seared into her memory. Soon enough, Winslow High would've seen Taylor Hebert back in pigtails and chattering away at those poor saps who'd been dumb enough to let Taylor worm her way into their lives.

Pathetic.

Emma still hadn't wanted her to die, though.

Slipping deeper into the soothing bath water, letting the weight of pretense float away for a moment, Emma allowed herself to feel a measure of regret. She really hadn't wanted Taylor to die. It wasn't supposed to have gone that far. Her choking to death on her own vomit had been an accident.

Emma exhaled, blowing exasperated bubbles.

_It was still Taylor's fault,_ Emma, eyes crammed shut, forced herself to repeat. The queasy knot in her stomach loosened a little at the false reassurance.

That lie got easier to say each time she thought it, and Emma knew from past experience that soon enough she'd even believe it. Like Sophia said, you faked it until you made it.

"Sleeping in the bathtub is a good way to drown."

Emma's eyes snapped open.

She looked up.

She looked over.

She saw Taylor standing beside the tub.

Emma bolted out of the water. Only her flailing limbs lacked traction, sending her slipping back down into the tub, banging her tailbone and splashing a fat wave of bathwater onto the tile floor.

It was Taylor. It was Taylor. _It was Taylor._ Same disheveled, black baggy clothes, same slightly squinty eyes behind clunky prescription glasses, same boyish chest and too wide lips. How the FUCK was—

"It's nothing I haven't seen before," Taylor said.

The threw Emma for a long moment. Until she realized that Taylor wasn't staring at her. Instead, the freak was glancing a little lower, like boys and men did. Emma glanced down and found herself holding one arm across her large breasts.

"I'd totally forgotten about that," Taylor went on, "until just now. We used to take baths together when we were little. Weird, the stuff that slips away from you."

Emma took one breath. Then two. Three.

"...Not that you being alive isn't good news," Emma said, lowering her arm from her chest because screw Taylor's snark, "but why am I hearing about it this way and why did you sneak into my house?"

He ex-friends took a seat on the edge of the tub, folding one leg under the other. Taylor loomed over her now. It was unsubtle posturing, the kind she saw jocks and gangbangers at Winslow do when they policed their social circles.

"There's this—Look, I'm trying very hard not to kill you. I don't want to kill you, not even after you bullied me and murdered me. All I want is justice, but God has very specific ideas about what 'justice' means."

_Shit shit shit shit._

This? This right here was the sort of thing where, at the first opening, you bashed the other person's head against the nearest hard surface and then ran like hell. Which was probably why Taylor had waited until she was alone at home, in the bathtub, before revealing herself.

Okay.

Okay, she shouldn't panic. Prey panicked.

Regardless of any other factor, this was still Taylor. When hadn't she been able to play Taylor like a fiddle?

"You're a parahuman," Emma stated.

"No. I am much, much worse than that."

She fought not to roll her eyes. So melodramatic. "You have powers, and you came here to hurt me. That really doesn't seem like you, Taylor. I would've figured you more for the hero type."

That pulled Taylor from her self-pity, but not in a good way. Her ex-friend sent a stink eye her way. "Yeah, you know me so well you only threw everything I ever confided in you back in my face, right up until you stuffed me in that locker."

"Think about your dad, Taylor. If you hurt me, they won't let you see him again."

"Who's they?"

"The cops. The heroes. _They,_ Taylor."

Taylor snorted in derision. "Heroes. I'd almost like to see them try. What sort of hero lets Sophia get away with the crap she pulled?"

_Never let yourself get tricked into confirming anything,_ her dad had said before they went into her hearing two days past. _They'll go fishing. Don't take the bait._

"Would a superhero stop you, Taylor? If they would, maybe you should think about whether you're doing the right thing."

"If it meant protecting their precious Shadow Stalker? Yeah, they'd stop me."

Beneath the water, Emma's legs began to tremble. Like a coward's. She took one hand and dug her nails into her thigh to make it stop. "You don't want to do this, Taylor."

Taylor held out her hand.

Emma regarded it like she would an offered viper. "Is this is trick? Get back at me by letting me trust you, then backstabbing you?"

"Just do it."

Steeling herself, Emma reached out.

Her hand was clammy and wrinkled from the water. Taylor's was dry but frigid.

"So, what, you've got ice powers?"

Taylor's response didn't come in the form of words. Instead, she _morphed._ Her skin bleached itself to a bone white tone and her blackish-brownish hair now looked as if it had been drenched by ink. Her glasses faded away and her eyes... they were twin pits. Black voids. In that darkness, something more like a twinkling star than a pupil gleamed.

Her ratty, fat pants jeans and black hoodie faded away. In their place, Taylor now wore a fine green hooded cloak and green shorts. The cloak clasped across her chest, preserving her dignity. Emma now found herself holding onto a green gloved hand.

Emma didn't let go.

She... she couldn't let herself be afraid. She wasn't afraid. Not of Taylor-fucking-Hebert. The world didn't work that way. The girl was prey, powers or not. Just look at how she'd come after Emma. Not face-to-face where she could fight back, but when she was in the bathtub, naked and hobbled by slick, soapy skin.

She'd make it through this.

"I," Taylor declared, "am the spectre of God's Wrath, Emma."

Emma yanked on Taylor's offered hand, pulling the spindly girl forward and punching her in the face with her free hand. She grappled with the dazed girl, and they both flopped around in the tub, splashing water everywhere, until Emma used Sophia's fighting lessons to get a hold on Taylor's neck.

She pushed her ex-friend's face under the water and held it there.

No flight. That was prey behavior.

Predators fought, killed, and survived.

It took a pulse-pounding eternity for Taylor to stop her thrashing. Emma didn't let up. It could be a trick. And who knew with parahumans? So, she kept holding Taylor under the water, counting to one hundred Mississippis.

Then she let Taylor's corpse go.

She starred down at the drowned girl for one heartbeat.

Two.

And then she scrambled out of the tub.

Emma ran, stumbling but not quite falling as she hurried to the door—

—flung it open—

—and found Taylor standing there.

It ripped its way out of Emma; the scream, the wail. That Taylor was a cape was irrelevant. So was the fact that she'd already died twice at Emma's hand. She threw herself at the other girl. There was no plan. Anything was better than what was in store for her.

She was a survivor. She was.

Taylor turned to smoke, and Emma flew through her.

She landed badly, face-first, on the hallway floor. Only the fact it was carpeted probably saved her from losing her front teeth. As it was, she rolled in a heap of limbs, dazed, even as she felt something hot gush down her face.

Emma crawled. Emma stumbled. Emma banged against the wall. She looked back over her shoulder at Taylor even as she ran for the stairs, naked and bleeding from her nose.

Taylor wasn't behind her.

Taylor was already at the bottom of the stairs.

"Fuck you," Emma whispered. She drew herself up to her full height, leveled an accusatory finger at her ex-friend. "Fuck you! FUCK YOU! FUCK! YOU!"

"Is this is trick?" Taylor said, using Emma's own voice. Not like the odd voice she heard on the answering machine message she'd recorded for her parents. No, this was her voice the way Emma heard it in her own head. "Get back at me by letting me trust you, then backstabbing you?"

"You said you were going to murder me! You said God told you to kill me! Fucking crazy people say that, Taylor! What the hell was I supposed to do?!"

Her ex-friend began to float, not walk, up the staircase. Emma didn't run. There was no point in running. She'd just... die tired. At least standing her ground denied Taylor the satisfaction of the hunt.

"Not murder me— _again_."

"I murdered you? Get a clue, Taylor. I may have helped put you in that locker, fine, but you staying in there isn't on me. Or Sophia. Or Madison." Emma sneered at Taylor. "I could hear your screams all the way in algebra class—" a lie "—and all the teacher did was close the door. Nobody gave two shits about you until you were dead."

Taylor bowed her head.

And that was a victory Emma could take to the grave.

"You're right," Taylor admitted, which was a bonus. "You're a murderer, Emma, but you're not the only one with dirty hands. I've got a lot of sinners to account for, once I've finish with you."

"Go ahead. Don't let me keep you from your busy social schedule."

Taylor snorted. "Nice. That'd be great last words if I was going to kill you."

What?

"I'm not a murderer. Not like you." Taylor's green robes started to rustle on some impossible breeze. "I'm going to give you a chance, Emma. One last chance. Because I've seen what's waiting for you on the other side. Hell is real, and I wouldn't wish damnation on my worst enemy—which is you."

Emma couldn't dare to hope. This had to be a trick. "You're letting me go?"

"Yes, but not unpunished, as you can see."

Her—

Her hands!

Hers were a stranger's hands. The softness that Emma knew so well was gone, replaced by a bony thinness. Gnarled fingers branched off from newly prominent knuckles. Veins stood out under the almost translucent wrinkled skin. There were moles, too.

No. Not moles.

Liver spots.

And the impossible aging didn't end at her wrists.

Fingers trembling, Emma felt her new face.

"Don't worry," Taylor said, after Emma had finally stopped shrieking. "The changes are only skin deep. You'll live a _long,_ healthy life. I just brought your inner ugliness to the surface. The thing is? Only the people who truly love you will see you for how young you are. If your friends and family see you as an old hag, then you'll know they're lying about how they really feel."

Arthritic fingers grasped at the hem of Taylor's cloak, as Emma begged on her knees. "P-p-please! Ch-change m-me back!"

Her onetime friend pulled away, levitating into the air. "Oh, by the way? Just in case you were thinking about taking the easy way out, given the red in your ledger... well... an eternity of hellfire and torture is a certainty unless you repent and change your ways."

Taylor dissolved into green mist.

Emma Barnes, hair white with skin spotted and sagging, curled into a ball and wept for forgiveness. If there was an answer to her plea, she didn't hear it.


End file.
